


Blue Balls and Blue Skies

by thedevilchicken



Category: Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: Banter, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, Getting Together, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Brixton Lore survives, and he's just as pissed off with Eteon as Deckard is.
Relationships: Brixton Lore/Deckard Shaw
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31
Collections: Writing Rainbow Make Up Round





	Blue Balls and Blue Skies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



Brixton, as it turned out, wasn't dead. 

Deckard had been fairly sure this time. None of that namby-pamby bullet in the head crap like before: Brixton Lore had got his sci-fi cyborg Lieutenant Commander Data arse switched off at the plug and then he'd fallen off a cliff. _Off a cliff_. Fuck's sake, he should've been dead. And maybe Deckard hadn't felt exactly proud about that, 'cause it wasn't like it'd been his idea to kill him the first time never mind the second, but the fact is: if he has a choice between _them_ and _me_ then it's _me_ every time. Unless _my fucked up family_ is also a choice, in which case the decision's a bit more complicated. A bit. Not very.

He'd been pretty sure he was dead. But there he was, picked up by a fishing boat then extradited back to dear old England and shoved into some shithole prison...except then he apparently gave the spooks everything he had on Eteon in exchange for his freedom. They gave him it, set of simple sods at MI-5 or MI-6 or what-the-fuck-ever, maybe there were subtle differences between agencies but then whether it's bullshit or horseshit it's all just shit in the end. Salient point, though: they let him out. And when the gate opened, Deckard was waiting in the car park. 

Brixton stopped. He leaned on his shitty NHS-issue walking stick. "Deck," he said. 

Deckard crossed his arms. He leaned back against the bonnet of his shiny new McLaren. "Brix," he replied. 

"You're the last person I expected to see." 

"Yeah, well, if you were expecting snipers, I took care of them." He made a gun with first two fingers and gestured over one shoulder, then the other, at two tower blocks where the Eteon snipers had been.

Brixton shrugged. "Yeah, well, if you're expecting gratitude, you'll be disappointed," he said. Then he finger-gunned two motorcycles that started revving their engines behind the car. "Always too busy with the fancy shit, Deck. Can't see what's right in front of you." 

"They're behind me, smartarse."

"Anyone ever told you you're a pedantic bastard?"

"Y'know, yeah. Funny story, I put a bullet in his head and he turned up again trying to pull some horsemen of the apocalypse shit." Deckard glanced behind him, over the low top of the car. The motorbikes kept on revving, like boy racers in the car park of a 24 hour Tesco on a Tuesday night with nothing else to do and not hired assassins. "Look, are you getting in or are we just getting shot? Up to you, mate."

Brixton limped the last few feet to the car. They got in. And apparently the revving arses on the bikes took that as their cue to stop burning all the tread off their tires and follow them. 

Frankly, they weren't that good. Deckard was underwhelmed, and he said so, and Brixton just gave him this withering look as he braced himself against the dashboard. 

"Think you could've chosen a smaller car?" Brix asked, as they turned a tight corner and one the bikes sailed straight into a fruit stall outside a tube station, sending oranges rolling all over like something out of a Carry On film. 

"Y'know, just 'cause it wasn't built for a giant, that doesn't mean it's not up to the job," he replied. 

Brixton raised his eyebrows. "You saying good things come in small packages?" he asked. 

Deckard put the passenger side window down. He pulled a gun from his jacket. "You saying big is always better?" he replied. Then he spun the car and fired three shots out the window; the second bike went down and he put the gun back in his pocket and Brixton frowned at him as he closed the window. 

"Cheers, Deck, my ears really needed that," he said. 

"Yeah, well, you'd've be complaining more if you were dead." 

Neither of them said anything about how that was a bit on the _one fine day in the middle of the night_ side of things. Neither of them said anything about how it was disturbingly like old times. Neither of them said anything about what Deckard was doing picking him up from the prison car park like eight months ago they hadn't been trying to kill each other. What they did was pull into Deckard's garage and when he killed the engine, he turned and looked at Brixton. Brixton was already looking at him. 

"You remember Kabul?" Deckard asked. 

Brixton smirked. "Yeah, but your midlife crisis mobile's not big enough for that," he replied. "My knees are nearly round my ears. Get a proper car."

"I meant the mission."

Brixton eyebrows rose. It wasn't subtle. "No, you didn't," he said. Honestly, he supposed he hadn't.

They ate rubbish pizza from the kebab-and-calzone place next to the pub on the corner - Deckard's still fairly sure it only stays in business 'cause shitty pizza's better than no pizza when you're pissed. Brixton had a good whinge about it, like they'd never eaten worse when they'd been deployed, and then, when they'd eaten as much as they could manage without risk of violent upset, Brixton leaned forward on the table and said, "So, you remember Bosra?"

Deckard snorted. "Yeah, but you weren't all Inspector Gadget back then," he replied. He gestured at him with the pizza boxes as he went to shove them in the bin; they didn't really fit, but that didn't mean he'd give up without a fight. "I bet you're like a tonne weight these days. I don't need you crushing my ribcage." 

They talked about Eteon after that, pointed at some maps, talked secondary sites, all _please tell me you didn't tell them every-fucking-thing_ (though of course he hadn't) until it was who the fuck knew what time and Deckard was too sodding tired to even read his watch. He rubbed his eyes. Brixton was rubbing his leg; the fall hadn't been a good one, not like falling off a cliff like a bloody lemming was ever _good_.

"You got a guest room tucked away round here or am I sleeping in the Italian Job?" Brixton asked, and jerked his chin at the Mini. 

Deckard clucked his tongue. "And you think you'll fit in that any better than the McLaren?" he said. "You'd wake up with the gearstick riding up somewhere unmentionable." 

"Suggestions, then?"

Deckard inched closer. "You remember Berlin?" he asked. 

Brixton laughed. They went to bed together. Forty seconds later, behind locked doors, they were both asleep; six hours after that, Deckard's phone beeping messages from Hattie woke them back up again. Brix swore under his breath and put the pillow over his head like a proper little drama queen. 

"Brother or sister?" he asked from underneath it, once the call was done and the phone abandoned. 

"Sister. She says I'm an idiot and she's surprised you didn't shank me in my sleep." 

"I was tired. Maybe another night, yeah?"

Deckard pulled the pillow away. Brix squinted at him. The moment stretched. 

"You remember Beirut?" Deckard said. 

He remembered Kabul: they'd pulled over in the middle of the night after four straight hours of teasing and when Deckard had got Brix's dick out of his trousers, someone shot at the bulletproof glass. The blowjob didn't happen. After the gunfight and the report-writing, the moment had sort of passed. 

He remembered Bosra: they'd been sharing a tent, officers and that, just the two of them 'cause the teams were changing over, one shipping out and another shipping in. Brix and got in from his job and fuck if he wasn't covered in blood; not his, as it turned out, but it still just about gave Deckard a fucking heart attack. He remembered the way Brix had looked at him, all hot and bloody. He remembered pulling him down on top of him, blood and all, getting it all over his vest but fuck it, he'd got another in his kitbag. Then some unmitigated arsehole blew up a clapped out Lada just outside the camp and that was it, the moment had definitely passed. 

He remembered Berlin, too: spy shit that time, like either of them were that sort of officer, three days to get the lay of the land before shit was due to kick off. And when shit kicked off, it went properly pear-shaped; leaked plans, MI-6 fuck-ups, on the run for two days with a stitched-up bullet wound each like a matching set, the whole nine yards. And they'd spent the last night in a crap safehouse over a curry house that smelled like every morning after the drunk night before that he'd ever had in his life. They'd shared the bed and in the morning, all bleary-eyed and half asleep like maybe they were fondling someone else and not each other, the fucking phone had rung to give them their orders. After that, they'd had work to do.

Beirut, though. Well, yeah. 

Brix frowned. "Were we ever in Beirut?" he asked. 

Deckard grinned. "Nah, but we'll be there tomorrow," he replied, then he slid one hand between Brix's thighs. "When we get there, ask me if I remember London."

London was memorable. And for once, finally, they weren't interrupted. 

They've moved around a lot since then, all over, chasing down Eteon so they can't fuck up half the world and then some. And yeah, so Brix is there 'cause he's pissed off more than 'cause he's fighting for the cause: his body's still a fucking mess, half from the fall and half from the crap that Eteon did, and Deckard's not sure if what he wants is treatment or revenge, except it's probably one and then the other. He still walks with a limp on the bad days, Deckard rubs his back almost so hard it bruises on the worst days, but put a gun in his hand and his aim's as good as ever. So far, Brix hasn't even pointed it at him.

They're in Rome right now, six in the morning and Brix is sprawled on the bed in the sunlight from the clear blue sky coming in through the blinds. He's naked. He's awake. He's watching him. It's one of those not-so-rare moments Deckard's not sure if Brix wants to fuck him or kill him, but he pushes the sheet down so he guesses that's the answer for today. They got there in the end, he thinks - all it took was ten years and two resurrections.

He goes to the bed and he crawls up over him. When they kiss, skin on skin, Brix's hands giving his arse a cheeky squeeze, there's no one around to interrupt them. Eteon's gone underground and every day it's a bit more like they're Shaw and Lore, guns for hire, just so they aren't bored out of their collective skull, but he's still sure they'll get them in the end. What he's not sure of is if the worst part's not knowing how long till they're done or the fact he's half hoping they won't be. 

But fuck it, he thinks. He'll enjoy it while it lasts.


End file.
